The Constant Shell Game, Chapter One

The Constant Shell Game

 

chapter one

where it all begins

 

 

Really, it wasn’t very far but why walk when you could ride. Right?

Mr. Stretch Huggins, BS stood, arms akimbo, on the worn floorboards of his little weather-beaten once-white clapboard house at the edge of downtown. He was doing two things at once. So he had to stop walking.

He was looking down the wide, packed-earth street lined with hitching posts and railings haphazardly filled with parked horses before the raised wooden walkways with the occasional lounging cowboy and the occasional strolling woman.

And. He wondered. He wondered about riding down this street he knew so well or walking down this street he knew so well. He wondered about people looking at him and what he’d have to say. Because he had to say something, even if he didn’t want to. He, Stretch Huggins, BS would have to say something to everybody. Fill his and their world with his words. Fill his world with the comfortable cacophony of his verbiage. Else he wouldn’t feel comfortable.

But he could ride. If he wanted. Then he’d only have to tip his hat. Maybe even just touch its brim and not nod because his hand would necessarily be obscuring his vision and he’d not know who it was he was acknowledging.

Before stepping down off his porch, Stretch Huggins, BS looked up at the sky and saw a reason to ride rather than walk. There were clouds up there. They were grayish, too. So that could be seen as ominous. Right? Better to be safe than sorry. He only had one suit clean. The other was at the laundry. Perhaps he’d pick it up on the way home. Then he could turn in this one and have it cleaned later. Say, on his way in or on his way out of town the next time he went in or out of town.

So Stretch Huggins, BS clunked down the four stairs, the third one squeaking as usual, to the dusty front yard and made his way to the old grey mare. He slapped her on the rump in good cowboy fashion. She had already been saddled. Stretch Huggins grasped the horn and the crupper of the saddle, put his left foot into the stirrup and hesitated. The reins were still wrapped around the hitching post. He’d never get anywhere this way.

So Stretch Huggins, BS relinquished his mounting. He loosed the reins and carried them over his docile horse’s head. With them firmly grasped in his left hand, Stretch Huggins once again assumed the mounting position. As he lifted his not inconsiderable weight off the ground, the mare grunted. The girth loosened. The saddle rotated. Stretch Huggins, BS suddenly lay in the dirt.

This would take some time. Luckily he had readied himself early. You could never be sure when a calamity would strike.

Finally, Stretch Huggins, BS climbed aboard his old grey mare and walked her down Main Street, being sure to keep her to the centre of the roadway. Leaving a dust trail behind him here was okay. Leaving a trail of the prevalent roadside fodder on the Governor’s polished pinewood office floor was quite another thing altogether. Yes indeed. Besides. He’d never been called to the Governor’s office before. It wouldn’t do to have shit on his boots if he could help it. Things must be looking up. Yes. It just could be he was finally being recognized for what he was. He served 20 faithful, loyal, unswerving, true years in the territory capitol. Maybe there would be a new suit in this. Dragging shit through the Governor’s house would be a drastic impropriety. A loss of face. To be sure.

Stretch Huggins, BS surveyed the town as he rode down the wide, dusty main street, the clop-clop-clop of his horse’s hooves punctuating the turning of his head. Several women stood outside the milliner’s gossiping. Favorite pastime in this city. Stretch Huggins tipped his hat as propriety dictated he do. No one noticed. The grocer was readying his outside display for the afternoon rush. Just enough interesting foods to entice the shoppers inside where he’d fleece them via impulse buying. Stretch Huggins merely touched the brim of his hat to the successful businessman, who did not notice, if he even saw the pale rider. The First Great Northwestern Territorial Bank was undergoing a facelift. There was a lot of pounding and ripping and shouting. Why were these people always shouting and carrying on so? Couldn’t they just do their job and be done with it? There were not too many customers because of all of this. The boardwalk in front of the Yellow Riverside Hotel was being swept by a young boy. By the bright clarity of the large plate glass window with its etched lettering the boy had obviously just finished washing it. The boy did not look up as Stretch Huggins proceeded on his way to his destination.

Stretch Huggins, BS checked his watch. A stage would be pulling in in about half an hour. He looked up and to the East for the stage’s inevitable plume of smoke. There it was. Right on the horizon where it should be. He slipped his well-used, burnished silver pocket watch back in his vest pocket and continued sedately on his way.

The Governor’s office was just down the street. A Georgian-porticoed house situated by its lonesome between the telegraph/post office and the real estate/register of deeds office. The Governor owned the latter; his dutiful son-in-law was the telegrapher. Stretch Huggins couldn’t remember who was the Postmaster. Not to be wondered a, really, as Stretch Huggins, BS did not receive or send mail. And that was fine with him. He was comfortable and mail was threatening. You could never tell what was inside an envelope. Stretch Huggins, BS only ever used the telegraph for business and that’s why he knew the Governor’s son-in-law, Gerald Herald the telegrapher.

Stretch Huggins, BS halted his horse before the Governor’s mansion. He hesitated before dismounting. He wrapped the old grey mare’s reins loosely over the hitching post. Walking around behind the beast of burden he slapped her on the hiney again. The old grey mare gave Stretch Huggins, BS a Bronx cheer behind his back, virtually the only social criticism a horse could make.

Stretch Huggins, BS stood before the imposing white columns of the Georgian mansion and looked up to the top of the red brick building with its white molding over the nine windows and one very wide door. He looked back down to the bright white steps and decided that it would be best to rid himself of the dust of his journey in the street rather than bespatter the porch. So Stretch Huggins began patting himself down and brushing the accumulated dust from his wine-colored suit. The elbows gleamed in the sunlight. So did his tie tack, a gold-plated thing with an onyx centre. He straightened his tie. He straightened his vest. He made sure the creases of his pants were properly directed down the centre front of his legs. He loosened the sweaty seat of his pants so that he could walk more easily. And so the crease between his cheeks did not display itself.

Then Stretch Huggins, BS mounted the wide white steps of the Governor’s mansion to stand before the massive oaken door with its great brass knocker. His well-manicured fingers grasped the glistening knocker and lightly tap-tap-tapped on its equally glistening plate.

Then Stretch Huggins, BS waited.